You got me that hoodie, 2 years ago. It was rigid and boxy, 3 sizes too big, with an awkward, stiff hood, in a dull, charcoal colour. But I wore it anyway.
I wore it when I went to see the world, braving the high street and hospital appointments alone. The hood’s drawstring whipped in winds that rushed through open windows on the buses I took to buy groceries and mail online shopping returns.
I wore it to school. To that place I hated so much but never knew why. The hoodie’s greyness, its felt-like quality, announced that I was done. That I had given up trying. I think I had wanted someone to ask me why, so I could cry to someone that wasn’t my mirror or the back of doors in public toilet stalls or the hoodie’s tired, tired sleeve.
I wore it when I fell sick with fevers and chills, and I had waited for you to bring me that lemon and ginger concoction. Instead, you called me and told me how to make it. I didn’t want to know.
I wore the hoodie as I hugged her on the many nights that she cried because of you. For you. At first, the hoodie’s only purpose was to keep me warm when the hairs on my arms would stand at the sound of her sobs. But after a while, I broke into the hoodie. And it broke into the lonely life you had left us with.
It learned the way I moved whenever she cried.
I would shift my weight between my feet. Then tug on my zip. Then ask her to talk to me.
Then, when she didn’t, I’d wrap my arms around her and the hoodie would join too, wiping up her runny nose and regret and self-hatred. And during these hugs, I had realised that the hoodie had been through hell with me, its pilling and loose threads proof of its troubles. And proof of your lack thereof. Because everyone did their part and then did yours.
I am wearing it now as everything comes together because I get it all. The hoodie’s sleeves may still hang off my arms, like they did when you told me there were some things I would never understand, but God, have I grown. Everything makes sense now.
This hoodie just fell short of making up for your absence. But it tried. And for that, I believe you owe it some thanks.
I wore it when I went to see the world, braving the high street and hospital appointments alone. The hood’s drawstring whipped in winds that rushed through open windows on the buses I took to buy groceries and mail online shopping returns.
I wore it to school. To that place I hated so much but never knew why. The hoodie’s greyness, its felt-like quality, announced that I was done. That I had given up trying. I think I had wanted someone to ask me why, so I could cry to someone that wasn’t my mirror or the back of doors in public toilet stalls or the hoodie’s tired, tired sleeve.
I wore it when I fell sick with fevers and chills, and I had waited for you to bring me that lemon and ginger concoction. Instead, you called me and told me how to make it. I didn’t want to know.
I wore the hoodie as I hugged her on the many nights that she cried because of you. For you. At first, the hoodie’s only purpose was to keep me warm when the hairs on my arms would stand at the sound of her sobs. But after a while, I broke into the hoodie. And it broke into the lonely life you had left us with.
It learned the way I moved whenever she cried.
I would shift my weight between my feet. Then tug on my zip. Then ask her to talk to me.
Then, when she didn’t, I’d wrap my arms around her and the hoodie would join too, wiping up her runny nose and regret and self-hatred. And during these hugs, I had realised that the hoodie had been through hell with me, its pilling and loose threads proof of its troubles. And proof of your lack thereof. Because everyone did their part and then did yours.
I am wearing it now as everything comes together because I get it all. The hoodie’s sleeves may still hang off my arms, like they did when you told me there were some things I would never understand, but God, have I grown. Everything makes sense now.
This hoodie just fell short of making up for your absence. But it tried. And for that, I believe you owe it some thanks.
by Anonymous